


The Oath (or, For Your Own Good)

by Bluecho4



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Blood Bond, Blood Drinking, Clan Toreador, F/F, Followers of Set, Inspired By Forum Thread, Minor Character Death, Religious Guilt, Smooching, Twisted Romance, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluecho4/pseuds/Bluecho4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a neonate Toreador discovers how vulnerable she still is, and takes extreme measures to rectify that.</p><p>In which an ancillae Follower of Set is drawn into passions she neither desired nor expected. And must find a way to reconcile these new feelings with her devotion to her dark god.</p><p>[An expansion and modification of an idea I had on the Onyx Path Publishing forums.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pick your author from à la carte fantasy  
> Filled with suffering and slavery  
> You live only for the days to come  
> Shoveling trash of the upper caste"
> 
> -Nightwish, "Weak Fantasy"

“Your highness! Thank you for inviting me to this wonderful party.”

A woman of dark complexion and black, braided hair extended a hand to the party's host. Around her body was a creamy white dress, with a neckline that extended just far enough to hint at ample cleavage.

The Prince – a pale man, face locked perpetually in his late forties – took the hand in his and, with just the slightest wary look, kissed it. “Madam Desta,” he said, looking up. “Every law-abiding Kindred is welcome in Elysium. I bid you welcome.”

Across the room, Rebecca Morse – long brown hair, skin as yet losing much of its color to time – chewed her thumb nail. She watched as the smokey woman uttered a high, hollow laugh, before leading the Prince into conversation.

“Martin?” Rebecca said, whispering to the man at her side. “Who is that woman?”

The gangly man at her side watched the two figures, stroking his chin. In reality, Rebecca knew Martin was, in fact, quite hideous beneath that glamour of his. Still, the illusion was pleasing enough, considering the alternative. If nothing else, the Nosferatu remained inconspicuous.

He smiled, displaying a set of yellowed, crooked teeth. “That, Ms. Morse,” Martin said, in his gravely voice, “is Desta Barsamian. An elder of the Followers of Set.”

“Oh?” Rebecca said, casting a passing glance sideways at him. “Is that all?”

“Don't give me that crap, sweetheart,” Martin said, grasping one of his fingers and popping the knuckle audibly. “You only play coy when you know nothing. Which is often. If you want to know more about the Setites, just ask.”

Rebecca scowled, looking away. Deep inside, the Beast within rankled at the disrespect. She forced it down. “...fine,” she grunted, staring at the Kindred across the room. “Would you be so kind,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “as to cure my ignorance? I happen to know you love it.”

“When it suits me,” Martin said, cracking another knuckle. He smiled. “You could just ask your vitae daddy.”

The Toreador clenched her fist, forcing the Beast down again. “Barry has...lost interest in me as of late,” she said. “He's consumed with some art project or another.”

“And you're telling me this?” Martin said, eyebrows rising. “You know it'll get out. If not because I sell the factoid, than because...well, look around you.”

Rebecca didn't need to. The Victorian-style drawing room that served as that night's Elysium was crowded with every Kindred of note. Undoubtedly, the harpies – the local gossips – had their ears tuned for any juicy morsels.

She shrugged. “They'll find out sooner or later,” Rebecca said, shutting her eyes. “This way, it comes out on my terms. Better yet, it's my token of trade.” She cracked one eye open, looking sideways at the sewer rat. “The Followers of Set?”

Martin grinned. “Pretty weak offering there, princess,” he said. He shrugged. “What the hell, though? It's not like it's a secret or anything.” He began popping the knuckles on his other hand. Pop. Pop. “The Followers of Set are exactly what they sound like: they are Kindred who worship the Egyptian god Set, also called Sutekh. They claim that he was their Clan founder, as well as a dark god.”

“They're a Clan? Or a cult?” Rebecca said, cocking her head to the side.

“Both. They're weird.” Martin cast a glance around the room. “Barsamian is one of their elders. Not too old, as far as elders go. Really more an Ancillae, but don't say that to her face. She's still got a century on you, princess. And she's got resources in the city.”

“Another crusty old stiff with years of seniority over me,” Rebecca said, examining her nails. “Got it. Why haven't I seen her around Elysium?”

“One, cause you're still green,” Martin said, flashing her a filthy yellow grin. “Don't expect to know every player in the game, sweetie. Two, the Setites aren't exactly buddy buddy with the Camarilla. When they're in a Cam city, they play by the rules for the most part, but that's a courtesy. They're Independent.”

Rebecca frowned. “Like the Giovanni?”

“Precisely,” Martin said. “Complete with connections to crime, spooky foreign magic that makes the Tremere seem pedestrian, and some weird obsessions. But instead of incest and necromancy, the Setites love their snakes.”

“Snakes.” The Toreador dropped the word flat.

“Snakes. Got this whole Thulsa Doom thing going on.” Martin shook his head and chuckled quietly. “No idea what snakes have to do with Set, but that's their thing. They can even get freaky, and...”

Crash.

The dull drone of conversation died as glass fell to the ground from a dark, broken window. A small metal tube bounced loudly over the polished tile.

Every eye turned to look at the flashbang. Unfortunate, when it exploded.

“AAAGH!” Rebecca screamed, throwing her hands over her eyes. Not that she could hear her own voice, with the ringing in her ears.

She staggered back, fangs bared. Her body shook; the Beast inside her spat out three conflicting impulses at once. Flee? Attack? Stay still?

The Toreador's confusion mounted as she felt heavy impacts hit her chest. “Ah!”

She tumbled to the ground, clutching her chest. Fingers played over her torso, feeling new holes punched through them, barely wide enough to insert her fingers. The wounds wept precious vitae, and felt still warm. A contrast against her cold, dead flesh.

Only in passing did she register that her blue dress was ruined.

Rebecca whipped her head around, blinking rapidly. Vision swam before her eyes, a persistent ring in her ears. Slowly, both senses came into focus.

All around her were scrambling figures. Some in party dresses and suits. Some in combat fatigues and carrying rifles.

“...foul monsters!” came a voice. Where, Rebecca couldn't place. “Demons from hell! The Society of Leopold has come to deliver God's righteous judgment!”

Rebecca ducked, throwing hands over her head, as gunfire rang out. She saw more armed figures leap in through windows, their muzzles flashing.

“...fuck this!” Rebecca muttered, scrambling on all fours towards a table. In her peripheral vision, she saw one of the party guests – the Malkavian Primogen, if she wasn't mistaken – leap at an attacker. Rebecca heard rather than saw the frenzied blows the lunatic rained on the man.

Bang!

“Ah!” Rebecca cried, stumbling to the floor as another bullet tore through her. “Nnngh!” she groaned, crawling another foot. She cast a frantic glance behind her.

A man in black fatigues advanced on her, pointing an automatic rifle. He face was obscured by a black ski mask.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over Rebecca's face. She looked up in alarm.

Desta Barsamian stood over the fallen Toreador, facing the hunter. She turned to him, and their eyes met.

The man stopped cold, frozen.

The Setite smiled, then opened her mouth. From the parted lips, a forked tongue shot out, crossing a meter in length. It slid across the man's throat.

A gout of precious blood erupted from the wound, and the man dropped the weapon. Grasping at his leaking neck, he fell over.

Bang Bang Bang!

“Ah!” Rebecca screamed, ducking down. Her fanged teeth were clenched. Looking up, she saw another man with a gun to the Setite's side. The air was thick with the pungent scent of blood, and the acrid smell of gunsmoke.

Desta merely smiled, licking her lips with her enormous tongue.

To Rebecca's horror – and the hunter's, for that matter – the Setite's torso grew over with a layer of bright, yellow scales. They glinted like polished copper in the chandelier light.

The man shook all over, sweat forming around the bandana tied over the lower half of his face. His eyes were wide. “G-god in heaven!”

“Your god is not here, little mouse,” Desta said, staring into his eyes with bright, slitted golden eyes. With her extensive tongue, she licked away droplets of blood that dripped to her chin. “There is only Set!”

She lunged at the man, tongue whipping through the air. Her body a blur of white, and sparkles of gold.

Rebecca Morse – shaking in shock – crawled backwards until she hid beneath a small table, set against a wall.

The Toreador shut her eyes and tucked her knees against her chest. Shutting out the world, she wainted.

* * *

“You can come out now, princess.”

Rebecca jumped, raising her fists in front of her. Then she looked up. “M-Martin? AH!”

She looked away, averting her eyes from the Nosferatu's true, hideous face. It was a form she'd only had the displeasure of seeing a couple times in any detail, and she had no desire to memorize its grotesquerie.

“Ha ha!” Martin said, tapping the top of the table with one gnarled finger. “Sweetheart, you're going to hurt my feelings! Ha ha! But seriously, everything's under control. Nobody here now but us _monsters_. Heh heh...”

Frowning deeply, the Toreador crawled out from under the table and stood up. With shaking hands she tried to smooth out her (now ruined) blue dress. “Ha...hah...are they gone?” she gasped. Not that she actually had to breathe. Old habits, and all.

“See for yourself,” Martin said, waving at the room.

Sure enough, Rebecca saw the previously well-appointed room in shambles. Bullet holes riddled the walls, light fixtures were shattered. Blood – precious, precious blood – everywhere. Pooling on the floor, splattered on the walls, soaking in every article of clothing. Somehow, a spray had landed on the ceiling.

Several men – most likely the Prince's ghouls – dragged bodies away. All but one, who stood in the corner and quietly swept a pile of dust into a pan.

“Poor Abby,” Martin said, shaking his head. “Who will pass snide comments to the peanut gallery now? Ah ha ha!” He chuckled to himself, slapping his knee. He raised his arm, adjusting a cuff link on his shabby, now blood-stained brown suit. “Vampire hunters, right? They sure had balls tonight, I'll say that much. It was suicidal, but it was ballsy. Ain't I right?”

Rebecca said nothing, rubbing her hands together and staring into space.

The Nosferatu seemed to note the silence. “...you okay, daisy duke?” he said, his puffy, sunken eyes looking sidelong at the woman.

“I...I almost died.”

The Toreador clasped at the front of her dress, fingers feeling the holes made in the blue fabric. “I almost died...again...for real, this time.”

Martin frowned. “Sweetheart,” he said. “I'm gonna do you a favor – a capital F Favor – and keep quiet about that sort of talk. And the hiding under the table bit.” He adjusted his wrinkled novelty tie. “Because – pro tip from a lick whose been around the block a time or two – that kind of weakness will be exploited by the sharks around here. If you think those hunters were dangerous, you ain't seen nothin' yet.”

Rebecca forced her hands down to her sides, clenched tight in fists. She turned up her nose. Still, her body wouldn't stop shaking. “W-what do I do?”

The Nosferatu shrugged. “Get less weak. Learn how to fight, or get yourself an advantage. Find some friends, and wrap them around your finger.” He stepped forward, looking her in the eyes. “You're a big vampire girl now, princess. Daddy won't always have your back. You gotta get some initiative. Learn to defend yourself.”

The Toreador looked away, casting brief glances forward at the sewer rat.

Ugly as the bastard was, he was right. She basically crumpled like newspaper when things turned hazardous. It's not like bullets were that threatening to her. Yet she not only ran, but she did the most ineffectual thing she could: she crawled under a table and hoped that the bad men would go away.

She clenched her teeth, looking down at the floor.

Like it or not, she was (un)living in a violent, messed up world. She could ill afford weakness. Nor could she stand the thought of feeling so helpless again. It chilled her to the core.

Rebecca glanced around the room. “...where did Miss Barsamian go?”

“Eh?” Martin said, scratching his bald, misshapen head. “Well, she went home, kiddo. Why?”

The Toreador forced herself to stand up straight. She looked straight at the Nosferatu.

“Can you tell me where I can find her?”

* * *

“Oh? And who are you?”

Desta Barsamian smiled, waving the young Kindred over to her spot by the brick wall. The dirty alley around her stank of mildew and stale urine.

Still, this particular slum building was the best spot to find illicit substances. Or, in this case, the type of vampire who had a hand in same.

Rebecca walked over, wearing a pair of tight khaki pants, a peach-colored blouse, and a bright blue light jacket. A brown messenger bag was slung from her shoulder.

She smiled. “Rebecca Morse,” Rebecca said, raising a hand. “Barry Cotton's childe. We met at the Cam party the other night.”

“We did?” Desta said, cocking her head to the side. “I'm sorry, but I don't recall.” She smiled apologetically.

“...I was the girl hiding under the table,” Rebecca said, smiling nervously. “You saved me from that guy, with your...you know. It was impressive.”

The Setite's eyes opened wider fractionally. “Oh yes!” she said. “I remember now. I see those brutes didn't harm you terribly.”

“Heh heh...” Rebecca said, gripping the strap of her bag. “...nothing that the red stuff couldn't fix.”

Desta nodded. “True. So, Ms. Morse,” she said, placing one hand on her hip. “What brings you down to this wretched hive of scum and villainy?” She frowned. “Did I get that quote right? I heard it somewhere, and am told it was from one of those 'moving pictures'.”

“No, you nailed the reference,” Rebecca said, smiling. She moved in a little closer, stepping carefully over the bags of garbage littering the concrete. “I heard from a reliable source that you can provide a Kindred in need with some...assistance.”

The woman's lips curled up dramatically at the edges. “The Temple of Set is always ready to provide help, to those who really need it.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “Although...are you sure you want to be getting help from little old me? Our reputation precedes us.”

Rebecca laced her fingers in front of her. “Consider me briefed fully on your reputation,” she said. “But you see, I have a bit of a problem. And, for better or worse, I've heard that you can fix it.”

“I live to please, my dear,” Desta said, nodding. “Just tell me what you wish. If it's within the not inconsiderable power of Set's followers, I will seek to grant it.” 

The woman almost shuddered. The neonate was practically begging to get pulled into Set's clutches.

The Toreador nodded. “Umm...can we go somewhere...private?” she said, clapping her hands together. “My problem is a little...sensitive.”

“Of course,” Desta said, closing her eyes and nodding. She turned around. “Come right this way,” she said, looking towards a nearby door, “and we'll get you sorted right-”

She felt the point piercing her backside before she finished registering the sound of riffling through fabric, or the footsteps bridging the gap between them.

Smack!

Desta froze, her body seizing up. She felt a shaft of cold wood break through her skin, weave between her ribs, and pressing against her heart. “Gah!”

Smack!

Wood pierced the cold, dead organ. The Setite's face fell forward, chin resting on her sternum. She felt the shaft thread through her ribs on the other side, and saw it press just slightly under the skin.

Smack!

The stake reached its final position, sticking dramatically from her chest, and tenting her low-cut top. The wood was stained with sweet, sweet vitae. The sheen of blood dampened her shirt, staining the white fabric crimson.

The Setite fell backwards, losing all feeling in her legs.

A pair of arms caught her mid-fall. One of them clutched a mallet, pressing its cold weight against her bare arm.

Supporting the woman's head, Rebecca Morse leaned in. She looked down at the Setitie, smiling.

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Looked away. Then, Rebecca's eyes lit up. “How about...we go back to my place?” The Toreador smirked, looking down at her catch. “You and I are going to be very good friends.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The love we share  
> Seems to go nowhere  
> And I've lost my light  
> For I toss and turn, I can't sleep at night”
> 
> \- Soft Cell, “Tainted Love”

“Rise and shine!”

The white sheet flew away from Desta's face, bathing her open eyes in searing light.

The Setite's face tensed slightly, belying the utter, shrieking agony boiling just beneath the surface.

 _Glorious Set!_ Desta thought, eyelids twitching, the light boring into her retinas. _Shield me from this intolerable light! Please!_

Suddenly, a silhouette came into view, occluding the light-bulb behind a head.

 _Thank you, dark father!_ Desta's spirits rose slightly. _Your mercy is boundless! I-_

“Hey!” said the figure.

Just the slightest tension returned to Desta's coffee colored face.

Oh. Her.

“How was your day?” said Rebecca Morse, smiling. “Sleep well? Cause I slept like a corpse. Ha!”

Desta's body vibrated slightly, the stake in her heart pinning down indescribable feelings of white-hot rage.

“But seriously,” Rebecca said, smug expression softening. “Sorry about this. Really, I am. If it makes you feel any better, I'm not going to kill you or eat you or anything.”

The Setite groaned internally.

“I mean, my sire told me all about what happens when a vampire drinks another vampire dry,” the Toreador said, leaning back. To the Setite's chagrin, the intolerable light from the ceiling struck her eyes again. “I don't really feel like skipping town for a year, to let the black aura dissipate. Too much work.

“Honestly, I was surprised that stake trick even worked on you,” Rebecca continued, stretching her arms over her head. “Nnngh! Guess you didn't take your heart out, huh?”

Of course she didn't. Desta wasn't a sorcerer. Only those masters of Akhu - the magic handed down by Set - could remove their hearts. It was among the dark god's greatest gifts. A mere priestess of the faith couldn't hope to learn that trick, not in a thousand years. Not without extensive instruction in the magical mysteries.

The Followers just liked to let everyone _think_ they could all remove their hearts. That kind of disinformation kept the lesser Clans wary of trying to stake Setites.

Did that mean this neonate was more informed than she let on? Or was she just that desperate?

...or maybe she was an idiot.

“Whatever,” Rebecca said, sitting on the edge of the table(?) Desta lay on. “I didn't bring you here to talk about that.” She leaned over – thank Set for the girl's shadowing head – and grinned. “Remember that party? How you totally wrecked those guys? You cut them up with your prehensile tongue. I mean, Ew, first of all. But it was damn effective. And you stopped them dead in their tracks. AND you could shrug off bullets with those scales of yours.

“I asked around about that,” Rebecca said, supporting her weight on the table with one arm. “That's your Clan's gimmick, isn't it? What was it called? Snakis?”

Serpentis. It was called Serpentis, and it was a gift from holy Set to His followers. A boon most generous, that His children wouldn't fall to the depredations of the Aeons.

And this rank childe – this baby just beyond the edge of first death – made light of that holy sacrament. By calling it a gimmick.

The Beast inside Desta wanted to throttle the girl. Hungered for her neck, thirsted for her blood.

“Whatever it's called,” Rebecca said, leaning forward until she nearly touched the Setite's face, “I want it. And you're going to teach it to me.”

Of course. Of the half dozen reasons Desta could think of off the top of her head for why Morse would kidnap her, Power was fairly obvious.

The worst part was...Desta would have taught the Toreador, had she just asked.

Granted, she would also need to join the Followers of Set. It was a religion as much a Clan, and it welcomed converts. But Desta wouldn't have begrudged the girl Set's gifts. Not if she was willing to learn.

Now, the whole matter was rendered more complicated than it needed to be.

“Obviously, I don't expect you to go along with me just like that,” Rebecca said, hopping to her feet. “The instant I let you go, you'll try to kill me. Or leave, then plot against me. Nor do I expect you to teach me anything, paralyzed on that slab.”

She fished through her jacket pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife. Rebecca unfolded a blade, letting it glint in the light. “So I'll just have to make you more...agreeable.”

The Toreador then proceeded to pull the sleeve of her jacket back, and draw the blade across her wrist.

A wave of fear washed over the Setite. Her body tensed up, a cold shiver running up and down her spine.

Desta tried to struggle. Flooded her limbs with the will to move. The Beast clawed at her insides, commanding she attack or flee.

None of it would work, of course. But dammit, she had to try. She prayed to Set for intercession. Begged him to work some kind of black miracle. To rise from the waters of Duat and smite her enemies, and deliver her from the den of the unworthy.

_Just...just please! Anything but that! Set below, save me from bondage!_

Rebecca forced the Setite's lips open. She felt not even an ounce of resistance in those jaws. Her wrist hovered over Desta's face, like a bloody sword of Damocles. The Toreador clenched her fist.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Desta's eyes drooped, as fear and horror turned into black resignation. She could taste the vitae on her tongue. Feel it pool at the back of her mouth. It was, quite simply, exquisite. Sublime. No watered-down mortal swill, but the concentrated vintage of Cainite blood.

Oh no. Oh no, it was still a little warm. The Toreador had fed recently. It was awful. It was wonderful. It was...

Stopping the flow of blood, Rebecca raised her arm and licked the wrist. The wound sealed itself by her saliva, as if it had never happened. “I think that's enough for now,” Rebecca said. She licked the blade of her knife, then folded it.

Reaching down, she tucked Desta's lower jaw up, closing her mouth with one hand. With the other, Rebecca cradled the back of Desta's head and raised it.

Horror washed over Desta as she felt the foul poison flow down her throat. Despite her paralysis, her muscles moved enough to swallow, cutting off the path to the lungs, so that only the stomach remained viable. It wasn't fair.

The girl's scent wafted over Desta, she was so close. Flowery perfume, and the stink of blood. It was sickening.

Setting Desta's head back down, Rebecca stood up straight. “Don't worry,” she said, smiling. “There's plenty more where that came from.”

She grabbed the sheet and draped it over the Setite. Blessedly, the horrid light was muffled.

Desta heard footsteps retreating. Squeaks, ascending a stair.

“Until tomorrow. Good night!”

Desta sat in silence, a boiling pit of hate and fear forming in her gut.

A distant click, and the lights above went out. The Setite felt...gratitude. For the darkness, and for the blood. The feeling only increased Desta's alarm. Heightened her horror.

It was already starting. Set help her, but she was already one third of the way there.

* * *

“Good evening!”

Once again, the sheet came off, and Desta was tormented by the glaring light bulb.

Rebecca sat on the edge of the table and ran fingers through her long, black hair. “You know what I thought about this morning, as I was waiting for sleep?” she said, leaning down.

The Setite said nothing. Obviously.

“I was thinking,” Rebecca said, looking up at the ceiling, “when you grew those scales. Do I get to choose what color the scales come in? Am I going to get your color? Is it random?” She sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “It's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things; no one is going to see them, if I can help it. Masquerade, and all that.”

She tilted her head to the side, supporting her jaw with one finger. “Come to think of it...it would raise too many questions if anyone else learned I had Snakis, or whatever it's called. Serpentry?” She shrugged, frowning. “I can never let anyone know, can I? Least of all your Clan.”

Rebecca smirked, leaning forward. “Well, since we'll soon be best friends,” she said, patting Desta's forehead, “it'll just have to be our little secret. That cool with you?”

It really wasn't. But lying there, completely paralyzed, Desta wasn't in any position to disagree.

The rage had subsided into a cold hate. But with that hate, a twinge of dread.

The Setite suddenly found herself hoping the girl would keep talking. Delay the inevitable. It was a foolish hope, and she knew it.

That hope was proven vain, as Rebecca hopped to her feet, and fished through her pocket. She removed that same Swiss army knife. It glinted dreadfully in the sickly yellow incandescent light, as the blade folded out.

Like the previous night, Desta prayed for last-minute deliverance from Set. Like the previous night, Set evidently considered her unworthy of the miracle. Like the previous night, Rebecca opened a vein and emptied stolen blood into Desta's mouth.

The scarlet nectar washed over the Setite's tongue. She resisted as best she could, that pungent allure. The scent that fed into her nose, and the taste that overwhelmed her senses. Desta tried to resist the urge...to savor. It went against her every instinct, habit, and inclination.

She failed to resist the urge. As the Toreador inclined Desta's head, letting the vitae flow to her waiting stomach, the Setite could not help shuddering.

Rebecca lowered the head gingerly back to the table, but lingered. Her hands – cold as ice – stroked the woman's skin of milk chocolate, and played with her hair of dark cocoa. Fingers combed through the braids, pale digits contrasting the rich tones.

The Toreador hung over the Setite, staring at the woman's face. Rebecca tilted her head to the side, and bit her lip. “...you know...” she said, patting Desta's cheek. “...you're really pretty.”

Part of Desta – the part that got her through nearly two centuries of undeath – wanted to spit in the upstart's face. Another part took an ironic pleasure in the flattery. Pride, even.

The whelp was much less clever than she thought she was. But even an imbecile could grasp the obvious. Yes, Desta thought herself beautiful. Stunning, really.

Maybe if the girl had opened with such flattery (as opposed to staking and kidnapping), Desta would have been disposed to teach her. After, of course, steering her towards Set.

At the moment, Desta could only focus on the boiling anger rising in her ches-

Rebecca leaned in close and kissed Desta on the forehead.

Suddenly, the Setite couldn't think.

“Sorry,” Rebecca said, rising to her full height. “I'm not usually into girls. But...” She scratched the side of her head, mouth slanted crooked. “...I guess it doesn't really matter. I'm dead. If anyone should be beyond caring about that stuff, it should be a corpse.”

She frowned. “...I keep wondering...” Rebecca said, rubbing her arm. “...why did I take Barry's offer? I made the wrong decision, didn't I?”

With a start, Rebecca straightened, coughing into her fist. “Forget it,” she said, running a hand absentmindedly over Desta's leg. Felt the jean fibers against her fingers. “It doesn't matter anymore. I'm here, now, and there's no going back.” She looked down at Desta and smiled. “Don't go telling anyone I said stuff like that, okay? It would be a really shitty thing to do.”

It took a couple seconds before Desta remembered herself.

As her captor moved from view, Desta lamented her fate. She would have killed for a vampire to reveal their secret vulnerabilities to her so candidly. Any other situation, and the Setite would be rushing from the room and plotting exactly how to leverage the little tidbits of information to her advantage.

The sheet fell over her body. As it stood, Desta was in no position to do anything. Least of all plot against Rebecca.

It was difficult, even summoning anger. No shortage of offenses could fuel that fire, certainly. But...

...the way Rebecca stroked Desta's cheek. Played with her hair. Called her pretty.

Set help her, Desta knew for a fact what the girl was doing. The transparent ploy. The obvious act. Rebecca's blood was slowly worming its way into Desta's cold, unbeating heart, but it was the Act that would dig it deeper. Cement those feelings. Strengthen them.

Desta knew that game, because it's what she would do, if she wanted to make an obedient little plaything. She _had_ done such a thing, every time she took a ghoul. Foolish were the masters who mistreated their thralls. A little kind treatment, and the poor things would jump to their command. Not slink and tarry, or resist.

All of this was obvious to Desta. She could see the playing clearly. An objective measure of the situation told her that Rebecca had no feelings for the Setite. That they were entirely one-sided. That Desta should not feel anything but rage and hate.

But Set damn her, that only made it worse. Because knowing it for a fact didn't change how it felt.

When the little light went out over her, Desta felt disappointment. Wished the girl would linger, just a little longer.

A sickening, cloying pain settled in Desta's stomach. The trap was closing, and she could do nothing. Two thirds done, one to go.

* * *

Whistling.

Desta Barsamian woke from her slumber to the sound of whistling.

Step. Step. Step. Click.

Beneath the fabric, the Setite saw the muted light bleed through cotton fibers.

Step. Step. Step.

Deep inside, Desta feared the tread of boots on wood and concrete. Feared, and also relished.

“Did you miss me?”

Whoosh!

The Setite's abused corneas stung, the rays of light piercing her eyes. Would that she could only blink. The Followers of Set were not built to tolerate such luminescent punishment. O Set! What had your servant done to deserve this treatment?

But thankfully – blessedly – Set had an ounce of mercy to give His unworthy child, for the Toreador's head came into view and occluded the light.

When Desta's eyes could adjust, the silhouette revealed a smiling face.

“My dear, sweet Desta,” Rebecca said, slopping on what passed for charm. What possessed Clan Toreador to invite this unsubtle girl into their ranks? “We're almost there. Excited?”

Her heart was a maelstrom of conflicting, painful emotions. Desta supposed that made her “excited”.

Two pale hands cupped around Desta's face, as Rebecca squished her cheeks. “Oooh!” Rebecca said. “I know I'm excited! My hard work and risk paid off!”

She leaned forward and kissed Desta on the nose. “Mwah!”

This was it. This was Desta's unlife now. The eternal plaything of a ridiculous, braying ass of a girl. Were there any justice in the world, the Setite would have heard Rebecca's sneak attack coming, held her down, staked her instead, and the roles would be reversed. There was no sense in Desta having reached this situation, in the power of a lesser vampire, less than half her age.

So why did she find herself wanting to laugh? Why did Miss Morse's antics come off more adorable than anything?

Desta knew why. She had to keep reminding herself. Her feelings were not her own. It was the blood. The blood – a hand-me-down from one of those ancient fools, who couldn't aspire to half the glory that was Set on a good night. The blood that bound Desta's heart as surely as the Aeons had bound her mind, those horrid years before she discovered the dark god.

She had to keep reminding herself of that fact. None of it was real. Not the Aeons' false reality. Not the tales of Set's descent from Caine. And certainly not the feelings that gripped her now.

Perhaps, if she kept that thought in mind, Set would endow her with the strength to endure what she knew came next. Perhaps this was Set's plan all along – freeing her from the thralldom that drew so close, at the moment when it ought to snare her completely. To defeat the Bond of Blood, and allow her to wreak vengeance, when the whelp thought her control complete.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. She squashed the voice in her head, telling her how unlikely that scenario was. Desta couldn't give into doubt now. Faith in Set was the only recourse she had left.

Rebecca looked at a watch, then nodded. “Well...let's get it done,” she said, patting Desta's shoulder. Stroking it affectionately.

A chill ran up Desta's spine. A shiver through the skin on contact. She suppressed the warm feeling in her chest. Focused only on Set. Only on prayer to Him.

Out came the knife, blade unfolded. It glinted invitingly in the light. When the steel sank into the neonate's wrist, Desta (metaphorically) held her breath.

The Toreador leaned down and propped Desta's head beneath her other arm. As if bringing Desta into a one-armed embrace. The scent of perfume, blood, and moth balls wafted over the Setite's nose. Rebecca pressed the weeping wound to Desta's lips, and clenched her fist.

All thoughts of Set, Rebecca, and imminent enslavement fled, the moment the blessed vitae hit her tongue. It washed over her, filling her up. A heady brew. Intoxicating.

As it dribbled down her throat, Desta's taut facial muscles relaxed. Her wide, frantic eyes unfocused, lids drawing closed ever so slightly. Her body – already unmoving but painfully aware nonetheless – grew distant. Numb.

She could only taste the ambrosia filling her unworthy gullet. Smell that now-familiar combination of scents. Feel the comforting weight of the arm beneath her head, and the loving grip on her shoulder.

See the radiant beauty, smiling down at her.

How had Desta never noticed before how lovely Rebecca Morse looked? How fantastic? How...

...Desta couldn't find the words. For painfully brief moments, Desta was not a thinking being. She was a body, being acted upon. A mere possession of Rebecca Morse.

Rebecca Morse. Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca!

To her horror, her Mistress pulled her wrist away, a trail of divine vitae extending off, like scarlet spit. Rebecca – wonderful Rebecca – licked cut, and it closed before Desta's eyes. Though she'd seen it a thousand times before, Desta couldn't help thinking it a miracle, performed by glorious Rebecca. Her Goddess.

No...no...wait...

Thought returned to Desta, and an existential horror bloomed inside her. Her face tightened like a drum. She could chase the sensation away, and truly think of the sin she'd just committed. The blasphemy, right though it felt.

She'd taken her eyes off Set – holy Set – and transferred her worship to a mere “ _Kindred_ ”. She'd forgotten herself. Forgotten who she served.

Moreover, Desta's heart sank as she realized the further depth of her folly. Her sin. She'd failed Set. He gave her an opportunity to fulfill a great purpose. To strike down a slaver – a servant of the Aeons and everything they stood for – at the moment she thought herself safe to remove the stake. But Desta failed. She couldn't keep her mind on Set and Set alone. She allowed herself to become drunk on Rebecca's heathen blood.

Unforgivable. Desta's failure was unforgivable. She allowed herself to become chained by the Aeons, and it was all her fault. She-

Rebecca's pale hand stroked Desta's face. The Toreador – her sweet Rebecca – smiled. Desta's unbeating heart fluttered.

“There,” Rebecca said, in that soft, melodic tone. “You are mine, and mine alone. Your heart belongs to me. I accept your Blood Oath.” She giggled to herself.

It was melodramatic. And it wasn't exactly an Oath of Blood accepted, so much as one forced upon the Oathbound.

Desta stared at the girl longingly. Rebecca. Her Rebecca. Her silly, short-sighted, _beautiful_ Rebecca.

Rebecca gently lowered Desta back down, then ran her hand over the Setite's upper torso. Her touch felt electric. Fingers closed over the protruding shaft of crimson-stained wood.

The Toreador gripped the stake tight, and pulled.

It was one of the worst pains Desta had ever felt. But she could not cry out. She could experience the agony, as the rough timber slid through her flesh. Inch. By. Inch.

In desperation, Desta focused inward. Ignoring the physical pain, by fixating on the emotional pain. She failed Set. She failed Set. She. Failed. Set.

“Nnnrgh!” Rebecca grunted, gritting her teeth. When she'd forced another inch from the stubborn wood, she reset her grip, then braced her other hand on Desta's breast. Push and pull together, straining against the foul branch. “Come...on!”

Pop!

“HHHAGH!” Desta gasped, curling into herself as the Toreador stumbled back, shaft in hand. “RRRAAGH!” the Setite screamed, clutching her chest and wincing. Her fangs extended, and she rolled over on the table. Her vision swam.

Almost immediately, blood rushed to the wound, and began to knit her body back together.

The Beast screamed in rage. It rattled the cage she kept it in, deep inside her heart. Her ruptured heart.

“Heh heh.”

Desta felt the vibration in the table's surface, darting a look sideways. Rebecca had taken a seat on the steel work table, smiling victoriously. The stake fell from her grasp, clattering loudly on the concrete floor.

“You okay?” Rebecca said, leaning onto one arm. Her body almost draped over the impromptu crutch, formed into what may have been an attempt at seduction.

The Setite frowned, looking at her in confusion.

The Beast still raged. Any other instance, and Desta would force it back down.

But in a quick impulse – a split second decision – she let go of the leash. She leapt at the girl.

“Ah!” Rebecca yelped, smug satisfaction giving way to alarm. She tried to shield herself, but she was three steps too slow. “Gah!” A coffee-colored hand wrapped around her throat, and Rebecca fell backward.

“Rrragh!” Desta roared. A gutteral growl, primal in its tenor, red-hot in its tone. She forced herself onto the Toreador. Under her weight, she slammed Rebecca's head to the surface. Desta mounted Rebecca, practically sitting on the girl's stomach.

“Nnagh!” Rebecca huffed, flailing weakly with her hands.

With her free hand, Desta grabbed one of Rebecca's wrists, and forced it flat against the table, over Rebecca's head. Feeling the other pale hand push impotently against her face, Desta removed the hand from Rebecca's throat and caught that too. She forced the hand down, just like the first, then leaned way in.

Rebecca's face contorted in terror, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Ah ah ah!” she said, the Setite's scowling, frenzied face mere inches from her own. Rebecca's legs kicked violently, but hung over the edge of the table. As such, they struggled uselessly.

Fangs bared, Desta exhaled hard. The breath – pregnant with the stink of blood and death – washed over the neonate's face.

The Setite bent down, jaws opening wide. They sought soft flesh. The pale expanse of the girl's thin neck.

“Aaaaaah!” Rebecca whined, tilting her head back fearfully. She tried to press herself as much as possible into the steel counter.

“Haaaah...” Desta breathed, teeth closing lazily over the throat. Fangs pressed against the smooth flesh, over the large, blue vein. Only a slight increase in pressure, and the skin would break. Blood would flow. Desta intended to take every last drop.

Rebecca's blood, life, and soul. Offerings for holy Set.

“Nn hgh ha!” Rebecca whimpered, shutting her eyes. “Nno ho ho!”

Desta froze. “Hah?” she breathed, eyes going wide.

“Aaaah!” Rebecca cried, not daring to move.

A bolt shot through Desta's heart. Not a physical bolt, but one of horror.

Her teeth came away from the throat, skin unbroken. Desta scowled, pain creasing over her face.

“...huh?” Rebecca said, one eye opening. She chanced to face forward, blinking.

Desta straightened out, and stared Rebecca in the eyes. She frowned, lip quivering.

She couldn't do it. The Setite couldn't bring herself to snuff out the Rebecca's unlife.

Her heart felt as if in a vice. A hate formed, directed inward. Desta had almost done the unthinkable. How dare she? How could she bring herself to attack...such an angel?

How could she do it, when she adored Rebecca so?

Without hesitation, Desta pressed her lips to Rebecca's, and kissed her. Not a weak peck, or a chaste, child's show of affection. A full, passionate kiss.

“Nnngh!?” Rebecca groaned in surprise, eyes going wide. She felt a cold tongue dart into her mouth, teasing her own. The rich, full lips pressed into hers, sending shivers up her spine.

Slowly – warily – Rebecca's eyes closed, and she kissed back. She found the taste of foreign saliva a strange but pleasing sensation, mixed with her own blood.

Desta's grip on Rebecca's wrists loosened. Her hands groped blindly, and weaved themselves into Rebecca's fingers. Brown, interlocking with pale.

The two kissed for what seemed like forever. Rebecca was restrained at first, probing experimentally. Then, she grew bold. She pressed into Desta's face.

“Aph!” Desta moaned, savoring the girl's taste. How long had it been since she'd kissed someone...and really _meant it_? When had it not been more than an attempt at seduction, to procure her evening meal? When had she last _felt something_ , in the embrace of another?

Rebecca's right hand wiggled out of Desta's grasp, and she brought it up to clutch the back of the Setite's head. To brush her fingers through her braided hair. When the Setite didn't object – merely used the free hand to pat the Toreador's head in turn – Rebecca grew bolder, and clapped her hand on Desta's shoulder.

She pushed, forcing the two into a roll.

“Ah!” Desta gasped, blinking. Suddenly, she was on her back, pinned to the steel tabletop. She quickly pressed herself into Rebecca's face. “Nnagh!”

“Mmm!” Rebecca moaned, letting the smooch continue, for the moment. Entertained the Setite's desire a spell. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, all told. 

However, in short order, Rebecca grew bored. She pressed her hand to Desta's neck and pushed, forcing the Setite back down.

Confused – disappointed – Desta gaped sadly up at her mistress. “Ah!?” Her eyes alight with a terrible longing.

Rebecca merely smiled. “Like I told you...” she said softly, hand tracing the contours of the Setite's neck until she could cup her cheek. “...You belong to me now.” She leaned forward, until her lips almost touched Desta's ear. She whispered, “you are MY property.”

“Haaah!” the Setite gasped, hand hovering over Rebecca's back. Did this mere slave have the right to touch such a radiant beauty? Desta closed her eyes, content to feel the weight of the girl – of her wonderful Rebecca – press down on her. To shiver under the touch on her cheek. “Yes!”

“I want you to say it,” Rebecca whispered, petting her prize lovingly. “I want you to speak the words.”

“I...belong to you,” Desta breathed, feeling a profound joy with the words. And a terrible guilt. “I am...your property...”

Rebecca grinned triumphantly, pressing one last peck on the Setite's cheek. A reward. Then, she pushed herself up. She took a moment to trace a finger down Desta's neck, across her torso, before trailing off at her thigh. The Toreador took to her feet, eying her new possession with pride. She gestured with her fingers. “Sit up, Desta.”

Obedience came as naturally as thought. Desta sat up, clasping her hands and pressing them to her chest. “My mistress...”

“Hmm...” Rebecca hummed, circling the table. When she stood on the other side, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around Desta from behind. One hand crossed over to stroke the opposite cheek. “Good...good...”

Desta shivered, clasping a hand on the girl's arm. “Hah...”

“My dear Desta,” Rebecca said, whispering into the woman's ear, “do you love me?”

“With all my heart!” Desta gasped, not feeling as though merely saying it once could express the magnitude of her devotion. “I love you! I love you, my mistress! My heart...is yours!”

“Then...you wouldn't mind at all,” Rebecca said, stroking her pet's cheek, “teaching me everything you know. Can you do that for me?”

“Absolutely!” Desta said, smiling. “All that I know...all that I am...it's yours!”

A wave a pain etched onto her face. She was offering what rightfully belonged to Set. Such words were blasphemy of the most high. A betrayal most foul.

Yet, she couldn't help herself. Intellectually, she knew that the love she felt for Rebecca was a lie. Another snare of the Aeons, to keep her trapped in their design. To limit her, and bind her will. Desta knew that these shows of affection from Rebecca were all to further that entrapment. She knew she ought to feel rage. Hate. That her devotion to Set and his message of freedom was all that mattered.

She knew all these things in her head. But her heart was having none of it. Her heart wanted nothing but to heap adoration on her beloved Rebecca. Her rose mistress.

Rebecca sighed contently. “Then we'll begin soon,” she said. “Naturally, you'll give me the full breadth of your loyalty. And you'll tell no one of what happened here. It's between us.”

“Yes, mistress...” Desta breathed, shutting her eyes.

But while the Toreador held her, she couldn't submit herself fully to the warm, fuzzy feeling washing over her.

Desta frowned, her chest constricted by a tight, secret shame. It was agonizing.

She failed Set. She'd had one last chance to fulfill Set's will, and she squandered it. She indulged her lust and longing instead. And she knew that now, there would likely never be another chance.

Desta Barsamian was Rebecca's slave. She hated it. But she couldn't break out, even if she wanted to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love may forgive all infirmities and love still in spite of them; but Love cannot cease to will their removal. Love is more sensitive than hatred itself to every blemish in the beloved...Of all powers he forgives most, but he condones least; he is pleased with little, but demands all.”
> 
> \- “The Problem of Pain” by C.S. Lewis, p. 39

“Good evening, Mother Barsamian!”

Desta Barsamian raised a hand half-heartedly, then kept walking. 

The Temple's mortal acolytes bowed at the waist, their brown and white robes hanging limply. They all gave her a wide berth, both out of respect for a Priestess of Set, and because they thought Desta was engaged in some urgent, sobering Cult business.

That Desta had no pressing business that she wanted to attend to – and indeed she didn't feel much like attending to anything but her own melancholy – she wisely kept to herself. Desta only hoped that no one would question her about her-

“Now, where have you been, young lady? Hm ha ha...”

Desta stopped flat, shutting her eyes and groaning softly. “...Ibrahim...”

Leaning against an open doorway was a tall man of African cast, adorned in a simple cotton robe. The front was open in the front, displaying his chest. Some mortal acolyte hung off his shoulder, stroking his abs.

High Father Ibrahim smirked, patting his companion's shoulder. “It's been three nights, Desta,” he said, in his deep, resonant voice. He tilted his head, frowning. “Is something the matter? Did anything happen?”

Desta wiped her face, sighing. Of all the people she wanted not to see – mortal or otherwise – her sire topped the list. Especially since the one she most wanted to see was... “It's...nothing, Ibrahim. I was just busy.”

“Oh?” the man said, playing with the acolyte's hair. As if he were afraid she'd grow restless, not receiving his attention for even a moment. “Want to talk about it?”

“Really, it's nothing important,” Desta said, shaking her head and turning away. Thankfully, she'd spent the entire taxi cab ride over thinking of likely excuses for her absence. “...I was trying to convert someone. It didn't pan out.” She sighed dramatically. “Such a waste of time. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Hmm,” the man hummed, nodding. “Unfortunate. I'll leave you alone.” He turned back to his mortal companion. “Come, Sarah. It looks like Mother Barsamian won't be joining us. Shall we return to the festivities?”

The two filed back into the large room. Desta could see from the doorway that many of the acolytes were enjoying themselves. Fruit, drugs, and pleasurable company. The usual, in the Temple of Set.

Desta rubbed her forehead, then stomped off.

 

Safely in her underground room, the Setite divested herself of her personal effects and crossed to her personal alter. Tiny clay statues to Set and the myriad gods associated with him sat upon it. She sank to her knees, leaning against the surface for support.

She grimaced, ashamed. It pained her to kneel before the image of the master she betrayed.

Did it count as betraying her god if she had no choice in the matter? Desta shook her head. That was an excuse. She could have taken the opportunity to kill her new regnant when she had the chance. But Desta hadn't. Now she lacked the will. Perhaps she'd never have the strength to harm Rebecca Morse.

Sweet, sweet Rebecca. Bold in her risk-taking...when she didn't have a gun to her face, or teeth at her throat. Charming...sort of, if one squinted. Brilliant...in concept. Not necessarily so bright in execution.

Desta groaned, rubbing her fingers hard over her scalp. She couldn't ignore it: putting everything aside, her beloved was not perfect. Not even close. If fate hadn't intervened, Rebecca would be dead (again) multiple times over.

This was the woman Desta loved. The worst thing in Set's eyes were slaves to false masters, and Desta was willing to kiss this silly girl's feet.

The Setite groped over the alter, finding a ceremonial dagger. In a fit of passion, she raised it and pressed the tip to her neck. “Nnngh!” she grunted, preparing to plunge it deep in.

...then she pulled it away. What would a knife do against a dead woman? Her cold flesh held tight to all vitae, so she couldn't bleed out just from a neck wound. At best, she'd go berserk, run out the door, and drain the nearest cultist.

“Set...my god, Set!” she cried, throwing her hands up plaintively to the statue on the alter. “What do I do? How can I do your will, when my own is stolen? How can I keep your glory in my heart, when it has been captured?”

Desta collapsed to the alter's surface, hiding her face in her arms. She began to weep blood. “Aaaagh!”

For many minutes, she wallowed in her sorrow. Desta grew incensed, and pounded on the alter, gritting her teeth. “Rrragh!” she growled, wiping angrily at her scarlet tears. Then she pressed her face against the surface, and cried more. “Waaagh! Set! Forgive your wayward daughter! Aaagh!”

Finally, her sobs abated. She found herself licking her arms, to reclaim the precious blood. Looking down at the sandstone slab that was her alter, she decided to leave the puddle of smeared vitae as an apologetic offering.

Sitting back, Desta stared into space, eyes downcast.

“...what...do I do?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

Ought she march outside and greet grandfather Ra? Would it be better to meet the enemy's face, defiant as Set Himself, than to unlive as a slave? Or would that be forsaking the gift of immortality Set gave her?

“It's not fair...” Desta said, shaking her head. “It just isn't fair.”

Even the sheep of the Aeons could be right, once in a while. One could not serve two masters. Desta couldn't serve Set, while also serving that heathen...

“...wait...”

Desta looked up, staring at the statues on her alter. Her eyes grew wide.

“...but if she were not a heathen,” Desta whispered, “there wouldn't be a problem. Would there?”

A giddy smile rose to her blood-smeared face. “Set! I understand now!”

* * *

“I have to what?”

Rebecca Morse blinked, looking down at her thrall.

The Setite cast her a glance over her shoulder, while she kneeled on the ground. Desta turned back to her clasped hands, smiling. 

Her mistress was so adorable when she was confused. “My dear Rebecca,” Desta said, closing her eyes, “to learn Set's greatest blessing – the miracle that is Serpentis – one must have Set in their hearts.”

The Toreador blinked. “...huh?” Rebecca said, cocking an eyebrow. “I...I thought all it took to learn some other Clan's powers was to...you know...” She looked away, shrugging. “...drink some of their blood. Right?”

“That is a part of it, yes,” Desta said, nodding. “One must have Set in their veins, as well. But before even that step, one must be prepared to make a covenant with holy Set. That begins with prayer and devotion.”

“Because my sire told me that just a bit of blood was enough,” Rebecca said, scratching the back of her head.

“And for any other, lesser vampiric Discipline, it would be,” Desta said, nodding. “But not for Serpentis. Because it is not like other Disciplines.” She looked over her head and smiled. “No offense meant to the...venerable Rose Clan...” The Setite shuddered, forcing the words out. “...but Serpentis is different. I shall say it thrice, but it is a gift from Set, and Set alone.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Rebecca said, crossing her arms. “Because you have to tell me if you're fucking with me.”

Desta frowned, an expression of pain etched on her face. “My mistress...I am not lying.”

“Because it sounds like more of your crazy cult shit,” Rebecca said, letting her arms drop. “I'm not interested in mystical gobbily gook. I just want the power.” She stared down at her thrall severely. “So skip the sermon, and get to the point!”

The Setite turned around on her knees, looking up and grimacing. “...my mistress...I swear to you, I'm not trying to deceive you.” She slowly reached out with both hands, making for the Toreador's hand.

Rebecca, cocking an eyebrow, quirked her mouth. She extended her hand, allowing it to be taken.

Desta folded her hands gently over the pale hand. She held it gratefully. Almost reverently.

She looked up, frowning sadly. Her eyes glistening with the threat of scarlet tears. “My mistress, please,” she gasped. “You seek instruction. But you ask for lessons that I cannot give you.” She tilted her head sideways. “May I ask...is it possible to understand how to cook, if one does not understand the ingredients?”

Rebecca blinked, then looked away. “I...I guess not.”

“And can a lawyer prosecute a case, without knowing the law?”

“...no...”

“And can an Olympian compete, when his body has not been trained to physical perfection?”

“No.” Rebecca bit her lip, confidence visibly waning.

Desta nodded. “My beloved Rebecca...” She leaned down and kissed the pale hand. “...I cannot teach you about Set's gifts, without teaching you about Set. I cannot prepare you to have the strength to channel his power, if you don't have the strength of faith. Serpentis was not made by Set. It IS Set.” Desta raised her head, looking deep in her regnant's eyes. “If it displeases you to hear it, I am deeply sorrowful. But I only have one path to power to show you. And that path is the path of faith. Do you understand?”

The Toreador shuffled her feet, studying the Setite's face. “...uh...” Rebecca said, trying to escape that mournful face. “...shit, I'm sorry. I...”

Shaking her head, Desta smiled. “Do not apologize, my beloved,” Desta said, pressing her cheek into Rebecca's pale hand. “You did not know. And you are wise, to be wary of tricks.” She looked up. “But ignorance, at least, can be remedied easily enough.”

She tugged on the hand. “Come, my mistress,” Desta said. “Sit. Join me in prayer. I will show you how.”

Nervously, Rebecca looked around at the ground. Then, uneasily, she knelt down. “Oof!” she said, rubbing her thighs. “Never...done this before. Are you...sure this is necessary?”

“I wouldn't be recommending it,” Desta said, clasping her hands, and shutting her eyes, “if I did not think it was the right way to proceed. My mistress, I only want what's best for you.”

That, at least, was not a lie. It made Desta feel just a little better.

“...okay...” Studying her thrall's hands, Rebecca clasped her own. She shut her eyes, then peeked with one eye to check if she was doing it right. “...alright...uh...what now?”

Desta giggled. “Oh...repeat after me.”

* * *

“...O glorious Set, who waits in darkness...”

Rebecca knelt by an alter. It was a simple affair; a wooden table, with a black cloth draped over it. The statue of Set in the center – depicting him in his warrior aspect – was not a mere placeholder. It was a finely crafted basalt idol, a foot and a half tall. While Desta had acquiesced to a simple shrine, for Rebecca's haven, she refused to budge on the statue.

The Toreador knelt on the floor of the basement, now reorganized into a miniature temple. Where she once held her thrall in bondage, she now let that same thrall induct her into the mysteries of Set.

Desta smiled, looking at the kneeling figure. Absorbed the sight of Rebecca's beauty, dressed in a white cotton dress. It pleased the Priestess.

Technically, the manner of Desta's education into Set worship was...unorthodox. At least by her Temple's standards. A true initiation would involve the entire Cult being brought in. It also would have happened before the initiate was even Embraced. 

But the beauty of their little cult was that, by design, there was no true way to go about the veneration of Set. In reality, the Followers of Set were a collection of hundreds of cults, all around the world, with just as many methods, rites, and procedures. Many of them did not even refer to Set by that name, but by any one of the gods that the Setites appropriated for their own use. Typhon, Shiva, Loki. All of them and more were turned into Masks of Set, a truth only revealed to those who ascend to the inner mysteries.

Indeed, the idea of Orthodoxy in Set worship was practically a conflict of terms. Set did not demand one way to venerate him. That would make him no better than the Aeons.

“...I come to you, my god, a humble initiate.” Rebecca droned, eyes closed, struggling to remember the progression of the rite. “Grant me your blessing, that I may spread your glory far and wide.

Not that it ought to be difficult. Desta deliberately chose a prayer that would get the gist of the subject, without confusing her mistress overmuch. There would be time to train Rebecca's memory later, when longer and more complex rites and prayers would be needed. Baby steps, and all.

The Setite took up the shallow bowl and the ceremonial dagger. “Glorious Set,” Desta said, head tilted to the ceiling, “I spill your blood, not to degrade your sacrifices, but to honor them.”

She dug the steel into her wrist, then poised it over the bowl. Scarlet droplets fell, catching the yellow light from the overhead bowl.

When the vessel was filled, Desta closed her wrist with a lick, then put down the dagger. “With the spilling of this holy blood, we honor you, O Set. Bless us this night, and bless this blood. May it be as your blood, and that your holy might inhabit it.”

She leaned down before the Toreador, presenting it.

Opening her eyes, Rebecca, reached out and took the bowl. Desta held it still with one hand. Together, they moved it to Rebecca's lips.

“Set, my god who dwells in darkness,” Rebecca said, smelling the pungent aroma as it wafted across her nose. “Fill me, that I may partake of your glory. Though you did not make me, I beseech that you count me among your children.” With one final exhale, she pressed her lips to the rim of the bowl.

Desta helped her tip the vessel back, and watched Rebecca gulp down the liquid. “With the imbibing of this holy blood,” Desta said, smiling, “may the covenant be forged. No matter what the Kine or Kindred call you out in the light, may you always be a Follower of Set in the darkness. So says holy Set, who flows through our veins. Amen.”

Rebecca drained the last drop, then reclined her head. She let the taste send shivers down her spine.

When she opened her eyes, she looked at Desta with a soft expression. “...is it over?” she whispered.

Desta nodded. “The covenant is complete,” she said. “The connection between you and Set has been made. Now, it will be possible to advance in your mastery of Serpentis.” She smiled. “Mistress...I am so proud of you.”

Rebecca smiled, nodding. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, Desta leaned forward and kissed her mistress on the lips.

Only slightly surprised, Rebecca's eyes closed. She kissed back.

 

Internally, Desta was very happy. But she could be happier (though being in the arms of her beloved mistress, in a temple built to Set, made it close). Inside her heart, she felt a gnawing guilt.

She had lied to her mistress. It was one of the hardest things Desta had ever had to do.

Of course it wasn't strictly necessary to be a worshiper of Set to wield his power. Many an apostate and rebel from Clan Setite still carried Set's blessing, all while denouncing him. And then there were the hated Serpents of Light, who fought for the Sabbat and subscribed fully to the Caine myth. All could use Serpentis, despite having nothing but hatred for Set and His followers.

Really, the prayers...the rites...the dramatic ritual, culminating in drinking Desta's blood. None of it was essential. She could have opened a vein and fed it to her mistress at any moment, and instruction could begin.

But Rebecca...sweet, sweet Rebecca...didn't need to know that. Even if lying to her tore Desta up inside.

It was the only way to resolve the conflict inside Desta, however. Choosing between Rebecca and Set? Such a cruel choice. Desta almost wondered how Set could forsake her so.

But then she realized the trick. And at that moment, all became clear. Set had not forsaken her...he'd given her an opportunity to do His work. To bring another heathen into the fold, and cheat the Aeons in their greatest game: the Blood Bond.

For indeed, there could be no conflict between loving Rebecca and loving Set, if Rebecca also loved Set. Desta's loyalty could remain intact, for it ran to the same object.

Besides, how could Desta really begrudge Rebecca the knowledge of Serpentis? It was a gift from Set. Why shouldn't Desta share that blessing with the one she loved? And though the deception pained her, Desta knew that pain was merely a means of shaking off the chains of the Aeons.

Between learning Serpentis, and learning about Set's glory, Rebecca would be transformed into a better person. A better master. She would become the mistress worthy of Desta, because Rebecca in turn counted Set as her own master.

And as Desta kissed Rebecca passionately, she considered the future. Teaching the lovely Rebecca how to manifest Set's power was one thing. But her mistress was so green in other ways. Once, Desta thought of Rebecca as a painfully poor person. Unwise, impulsive, and weak willed. Now, Desta understood her duty. She had to _make_ Rebecca better in every way.

Good thing, Rebecca had such a wise servant by her side. One who was so much more experienced. Who could give her wise council. Who could leverage influence for her benefit. Who could train her to be sharp of wit, strong of will, and patient as any immortal should be.

All while loving her, fully and completely. It was a tough responsibility, but Desta was more than up for the task.

So, in their embrace, Desta felt a little better about lying. It was hard, deceiving her beloved. But Desta wouldn't truly love her, if she was only Kind. If she backed down, and gave Rebecca everything she wanted. No responsible parent would permit such a thing for their children. No true lover, allow their beloved to wallow, unrefined. So Desta would keep lying. Would keep being firm. Would work against every emotional impulse to be the devoted, blind servant.

Rebecca Morse needed Desta Barsamian to lie to her. Some night, Rebecca would thank her. After all, it was all for her own good.


End file.
